The Three Times Jack Went Back
by elliekath
Summary: After the Island, Jack couldn't go back to the hospital.
1. The Three Times Jack Went Back

When Jack got downstairs, Kate was standing at the sink washing a few dishes. A sandwich oozing brown mustard sat on the counter, haphazardly wrapped in wax paper. A green apple lay on its side, a candy bar and a bag of chips keeping it from rolling off the counter and down to the floor. Kate's rushed, but loving lunches were always mindful of Jack's favorites.

Kate shut the water off and turned around slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She was pleased to see Jack there, dressed in plain, navy blue scrubs. He looked nervous.

"Morning, Doctor." Kate moved to him.

"Morning, Chef." Jack pulled her in gently, grateful for the weight of her head against his chest. She leaned back to study him, seeing a line of worry reaching from temple to temple.

"Think you're ready?" She asked, and Jack pursed his lips. Silence. Kate knew that silence well, full of self doubt. She'd earned over the years that she had no power to palliate that doubt. All she could do was wait until he gathered the strength to prove himself wrong. She did, though, pick up a few tricks on the way.

"I found this," Kate said, walking over to the living room and returning with a leather doctor's bag. It was chocolate brown, clearly used, but not worn. "It was your father's. I didn't know that you were named after him."

Jack took it from her carefully and unzipped the main compartment. On the inside, there were three letters embroidered in broad capital letters. C.J.S. Christian Jack Shephard. "I guess I am." Jack replied, surprised.

Within ten minutes, Jack had filled it, kissed Kate goodbye, and gotten himself in the car. It would serve as a reminder, he thought, for all of the things he did and did not want to be.

Autopilot took over on the way there; it was an easy drive. He pulled into the employee deck at St. Sebastian's, wheeling his car into it's spot. From there, he sat in the car for an hour. Jack stared at the staff entrance, watched bodies in scrubs rush in and struggle warily out. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his father's bag on his lap, carrying lunch and paperwork and an extra pair of shoes. Nothing about it felt right.

Jack fished the keys from the console and started the engine. He was home within ten minutes.

—-

The next day's alarm went off at 6:30. Not so bright, but certainly early. The first of the morning sun coaxed him awake. He stirred immediately, but not Kate. She slept soundly next to him, and that brought him comfort. On the island she was all kicks and whines, fighting her way through the night. He planted a kiss firmly on her forehead, smoothed back the frizzy morning curls that spread out over the pillow, and rolled out from under her arm. She shifted, but did not rouse. Jack took that as a compliment.

He showered, put on his scrubs—green this time—and headed to the car with his father's bag in tow. It still felt wrong.

On the way there, Jack imagined his parents, all that money they spent on medical school, the thousands of hours he himself spent studying in classrooms. Neither cost was enough to compel him out of the car once he parked.

Hospitals were too full, too full of life and death and sadness and joy. Sure, he welcomed the life and the happiness that it brought, but the converse was too much to bear. He had witnessed his fill. He no longer wanted to be responsible. Saving lives was noble work, and he had done enough. He remembered Sun's words on the Island, when he had been working on Boone for hours and hours, weak from transfusion and dehydration and exhaustion.

"You have done enough." She said sternly, hand on his shoulder.

He grasped for negatives—the hours, the risks, the physical toll, strained relationships. They were not hard to find. Maybe his protestations had weight. Maybe they were exaggerated, simply because Jack wanted to be anywhere else but the parking lot of that damned hospital.

Angry this time, he shoved the keys in the ignition. He sped from the tier and onto the street, running three red lights on the way to the stadium. Just like during his residency, he'd stomp on each and every blue step in the arena. He'd go home sweaty and tired, but with a solution instead of a problem.

—

"You know, you don't _have_ to be a doctor, Jack. It was your job, not who you are." Kate came up behind Jack, seated at the breakfast nook. He was hunched over that morning's newspaper, but he wasn't reading it.

"It's not fair that you always know what I'm thinking." He pushed the paper across the marble.

"You're a dead giveaway." Jack sighed and turned around. Just as he opened his arms, Kate settled between his knees. His chin rested on her shoulder, arms wrapped lazily around her waist. Her hair was wet from a shower; it smelled of lavender and dripped on his hands.

"I don't want to be a doctor." Jack admitted softly, more to Kate's neck than the outside world.

"I know," Kate said, equally as low.

"I can't be a doctor anymore. Not after."

"I know." Jack was cracking now, he pulled Kate in closer.

"I don't know how to do anything else."

"You'll find something, Jack. You will." He wanted to believe her, really—he did. But an overwhelming fear of failure was instilled in him before he could walk. He sighed again, this time, deeper. Kate pulled away, hands coming to either side of Jack's face. "You have nothing to prove, anymore, Jack. Not to me, not to your Dad, not to anyone. Do what you want to do. Do what feels right. Do what's going to make you happy."

Jack closed his eyes, and was silent for a long time.

"I have to go sign the papers. Let them know they need to find another surgeon."

Kate watched Jack's old Ford peel out of the driveway and skid down the street. He had always been such a terrible driver. She laughed to herself, and crossed driving off of the list of potential occupations.


	2. The Fixer Upper

Jack bought the house on impulse from the bank after he'd quit at the hospital, a grand old fixer-upper nowhere near the Bay. The home had become his project, he'd worked for months making it livable, painting and spackling and building.

When Jack had first seen it, the lawn was overgrown, crabgrass warring with the stony pavement. The trees had wound themselves up the pillars near the front door, obscuring the windows in a protective gate of foliage. The realtor led him inside, a bit exasperated.

"Are you sure you even want to look inside? There are so many nicer properties closer to your current home…" The voice faded as Jack approached the center of the foyer. He stood over the circular inlay within the chestnut floors and looked up, eyes traveling up the single staircase, grand in its spiral. The tapestries were worn and dusty at the top of the windows, bunting which was once bright, now threadbare and drab.

But, he saw it, saw it new like it had been, saw it like he saw a sick patient growing well. He heard Kate's footsteps at night, transporting tea like an English courier from the kitchen to where she'd spend hours reading in the sunroom to the left. He heard the creak in the boards as they'd dance, slow and loose and rocking, to Sinatra records in the parlor after dinner. The house was sprawling, spectacular—and in total disarray.

"I want it," Jack affirmed, turning around to the realtor as the reverie faded. "How much?"

With little negotiation, Jack received the keys, smooth in his palm. It would take time, effort, and care, but it would be a legitimate labor of love. He'd missed the mindlessness of manual labor from the Island, the clarity that came with exhaustion. He refused to hire contractors at any step of the way.

And, for nearly eight weeks, Jack would return home at late night to Kate with scrapes and bruises, panting but elated. She would scrub the paint from his shoulders in the bath, buffing away the sawdust and sweat as he relaxed into her skin and the water. He slept quickly those nights. Not long after he wriggled under the duvet he was lost, lulled away by Kate's breathing and the crickets outside.

Like clockwork, he'd rise at 6 and repeat, coffee then a trip to the hardware yard or furniture store, only to continue his work. It was fulfilling.

When it was finished, Jack drove Kate over in the Bronco, strapped in and blindfolded.

"Just wait," he promised, "it's worth it." She smiled and reached for his hand over the console.

The tires crunched over the gravel driveway just a few minutes later. "Stay, I'll get you out." Jack nearly jumped from the driver's seat, wild to get her inside. He led her slowly up the walkway, gently paved with shale stones and lined with singing peonies and succulents.

"One step." Jack instructed her, hands firmly around her waist. Her blind, teetering steps were unsure, endearing. Jack placed her hand on the knob, and guided the twist. Before slipping her blindfold off, he spoke, directly into her ear, "Welcome home, Kate."

_Home_ took the breath from her. It was more than anything she'd ever seen. More color, more comfort, more—hers. She felt welcomed by the place, as if it was inviting her in. Candles were lofted high on the wall in sconces: lavender, bergamot, vanilla. Iron picture frames lined the end tables and the walls, constant reminders of their happiness. Bookcases replaced wallpaper, full t bursting with titles. The archways led into one another, halls with rooms that seemed never to end. The house would take time to give its full self, all of its secrets.

She walked to the staircase and traced her fingertips across the polished wood, craned her neck to the second floor landing. It was plush, all somehow—familiar.

"Well?" The look of wondrous contentment on Kate's face as she turned to face him said more than she could, but she did her best to respond.

"This is…incredible. You did all of this?"

Jack nodded, happy with his decision to force her to wait until the very end. Happy with the hours spent on hands and knees and debating with a designer over scents and hues. "For you. For us. So we can have a home."

Moved, Kate took Jack's hands in hers and squeezed, feeling the callouses he'd formed over hammer handles and power tools. With that, she rocked onto her tiptoes and kissed him, fast at first but slowing as she realized something Jack had been trying to tell her since they'd really gotten together: there was no rush, this was forever. They were safe and away, free from the forces of the Island or anything else. Jack was her home, not these four walls, no matter how ornate. All she needed was his warmth and his heartbeat and the sweetened rasp of his voice.

"Thank you, Jack" she said, overcome and nearly silent. It sparked a smile that shocked over his face. She kissed it away, and then back again.


End file.
